The Silver Coin

  “Ummm,” she responded, snuggling closer and rubbing her thigh over his with that innate sensuality he found so unbearably arousing. “That's perfect.”

  He cupped her face between his palms, studied her intently. “Does it hurt?”

  She shook her head, sending masses of her newly freed hair tumbling about. “Not even a bit. It feels,” she wriggled slightly, taking him deeper into her, “more right than I can say.”

  Royce felt his body leap in response—an astound­ing fact considering that minutes ago he thought him­self incapable of moving, much less making love.

  More astounding was the emotion that accompa­nied it.

  “Breanna,” he said, determination lacing his words. “I meant what I said earlier. We need to talk. To make plans. The minute I eliminate that bastard who's after you, I'm dragging you off and putting a wedding ring on your hand.”

  She traced his lips with her fingertips. “You'll get no argument from me.” A pause. “Although I really meant it when I said I didn't expect you to decide our future right away. Love is one thing, marriage quite another. You're a very independent man, Royce. I don't want you to feel as if you're sacrificing that independence.”

  “If you're telling me not to need you, don't bother. It's too late.” Royce kissed her fingertips. “I don't feel less independent. I feel lucky.” A heartbeat of a pause. “And I want to give you everything you deserve.”

  “Including a depth of emotion you're still not sure you're capable of,” she replied astutely. “Well, you might not be sure, but I am. And I happen to be a very wise woman.”

  Royce chuckled, tangling his hands in her glorious auburn hair and kissing her tenderly. “Yes, you are.”

  She wrapped her arms about his neck. “I love you,” she whispered.

  Royce's eyes darkened with emotion. “I didn't real­ize what I was missing. Now I do.” His palm slid around to caress her nape. “You're the most beautiful, courageous—”

  “Surprising?” Breanna added with a shaky laugh. “I've never been so forward in all my life. I still can't believe I just seduced you.”

  One dark brow rose. “Is that what happened? Funny, I recall it being very mutual.”

  “But I initiated it. I think there was a part of me that knew it would happen the minute I stepped into the hallway.” She gave a dazed shake of her head. “My heart was pounding when I walked out there. Be­cause I was determined to tell you that I love you. I'm sure you've guessed I'm rarely so audacious. In fact, I can only think of one other time I shocked myself as thoroughly as I did tonight.”

  “When was that?”

  “When I held my father at gunpoint.”

  Royce propped himself on one elbow, feeling more intrigued than stunned. “Was that when he was going after Anastasia?”

  A nod. “He planned on selling her. He meant to ship her off to some animal named Rouge, who sold women as prostitutes. And he was going to beat me until I told him her whereabouts. I couldn't allow any of that. Something inside me just snapped.” She in­clined her head, gazing thoughtfully up at Royce. “I often relive that moment. And I wonder what I would have done if he'd disregarded my threats and contin­ued advancing toward me. Would I have pulled the trigger? I honestly don't think I could have—not then. Maybe because he's my father, and maybe because I hadn't yet actually heard him hire an assassin to do away with Stacie. If I already had, or if I'd seen Father either hurt Stacie or shove her onto that ship bound for Calais, my anger might have won out over my ret­icence. I don't know.”

  She inhaled shakily. “But with the assassin, it's dif­ferent. He's a cold-blooded killer who's made it fla­grantly clear he intends to murder Stacie and her unborn child. In his case ... Royce, I think I could shoot to kill.”

  In response, Royce's jaw clenched. “I know you could,” he replied, that fierce mixture of pride and protectiveness welling up inside him. “But you wouldn't be able to do it fast enough. I'd beat you to it. Because I'm the one who's going to kill that bastard.”

  A tiny shiver went through Breanna, as if some premonition told her that's precisely how it would happen.

  Blindly, as if to ward off the ugliness of their discus­ s ion, she reached up, twined her arms around Royce's neck. “No more.” She tugged his mouth down to hers, obliterating all talk of the assassin by rekindling the beauty they'd just shared. “No more talk about him tonight” She pressed closer, slurring her hips ever so slightly, drawing Royce into her melting warmth. “Tonight is ours,” she whispered. “ I want nothing else to intrude.”

  Royce responded with an overwhelming urgency his body hardening to rigid fullness, swelling to fill hers. “ It won't,” he murmured, rolling her to her back, pressing deep inside her. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

  19

  “ You ' re saying there's no connection among the vic­tims, at least not f inancially,” Royce stated, taking a healthy swallow of brandy and leaning against the sitting-room mantel, regarding Hibbert, who'd just re­turned from his investigative excursion.

  “None.” Hibbert settled himself in a chair, and glanced through his notes. “Except that they all lived in London and were all affluent.”

  “What about their wills?”

  “Four separate solicitors drew them up. I spoke with all of them. They had nothing substantial to offer in the way of information. As for the beneficiaries, none were common among the victims. Each of the wives stood to inherit first. But, in the event the wives died before they did, each gentleman made different provisions. In two of the cases, the estates were be­queathed to grown daughters by a previous marriage, in one case to a grown nephew. In the case of Lord Hart, it was left to a son he'd sired with one of his mistresses.”

  Royce frowned. “Nothing to the children they shared with their current wives?”

  “There were no children with their current wives. That was the only other link I found among the four noblemen. Their wives were significantly younger than they, and had been married a relatively short period of time—three years or less. My guess is that's what led Bow Street to suspect the women were in­volved. They had huge fortunes to gain and long years in which to enjoy them.”

  “Have any of the beneficiaries pressed to collect their money?”

  “No.” Hibbert shook his head. “They're all wealthy in their own right, other than Hart's legitimate son, who ran off years ago and took to the sea. The other three are waiting patiently. They're more interested in finding out who killed the victims and kidnapped their wives than in claiming an inheritance.”

  His frown deepening, Royce stared off into space. “So the men all had young wives—wives who disap­peared, taken by a kidnapper who's made no attempt to get at their husbands' money.” He took another swallow of brandy. “Which brings us to the question, if the killer isn't holding these women for ransom, what did he do with them? Murder them? If so, why haven't the bodies turned up? If not, what would he want with them?”

  Abruptly, Royce broke off, his own words finding their mark.

  Realization struck hard, and the missing piece fell into place.

  “Dammit,” Royce bit out, slamming his goblet to the sideboard. “It's been right in front of me all this time and I never saw it.” He turned, his hard stare finding Hibbert. “We've been assuming the men were his intended victims. They weren't. They were merely sport—as I said, a sick game of target practice to ready him for Breanna. It's their wives who were his true marks. They were the ones he wanted. And, as you discovered, they're the ones with something in common—their youth, their childless state.”

  Hibbert gave him a puzzled look. “You've lost me.”

  “Something Breanna said last night just sank in .” Royce began prowling about, his forehead creased in thought as he polished his theory. “Or rather, two things she said in the same breath. She referred to overhearing her father arrange for the assassin to kill Anastasia, and she referred to having to bear the knowledge that he intended to sell her cousin as a pro
stitute.”

  “We knew both those facts.”

  “Yes, but we didn't look for the common link be­tween them. We never directly tied the assassin to Medford's selling of women. But there is a tie, a strong one—Cunnings.”

  Hibbert's head came up, his eyes narrowed as he caught his employer's implication. “It was Cunnings who Medford paid to hire the assassin. So we know Cunnings and the killer were well-acquainted. We also know that Cunnings was aware of Medford's business of selling women. Which means he could very well have mentioned that fact to his colleague.”

  “Cunnings was more than aware of what Medford was doing,” Royce corrected. “From what I remember of the Bow Street report, he was right in the thick of things. While he went about hiring the assassin, he was also trying to provide a substitute for Anastasia— another nobly-bred young woman to send to Paris.

  That way, Anastasia would be eliminated, and George Colby would still get paid by his French buyer Cun­nings knew he'd be handsomely rewarded for manag­ing both.”

  “A fact he could have boasted to the killer,” Hibbert murmured.

  “Right. After all, he was taking on a daunting task. Highborn ladies don't vanish as easily as workhouse women do. They're missed— if there's someone alive to miss them.”

  “You think the assassin picked up where my father left off?”

  Both men started, jerking about to see Breanna standing in the doorway, her face drawn, her eyes filled with pain. “You think he sold those four women?”

  “I mink ifs a strong possibility.” Royce walked over, took her hands in his.

  “But why? We've determined he doesn't need the money... Don't answer that,” she amended, with a shiver of disgust. “The challenge. Winning. God, this is sickening.”

  “But it makes sense,” Hibbert said quietly, glancing at his notes. “As you pointed out, none of the wives had yet borne children—which probably means they were fresher, more youthful-looking, and therefore more desirable to whomever purchased them. None of them had relatives, other than parents who lived far away and represented no threat to the assailant”

  “All but Emma Martin.” Royce raked a hand through his hair, another glimmer of insight taking shape. “That miserable bastard not only bested me by killing Glynnis and stealing her daughter, he fur­ t he red his own sick scheme in the process.”

  “Emma must have been among his latest ship ­ ment.” Hibbert nodded. “I agree. Which brings to mind another fact. All the women lived in L ondon , which made them easily transportable to the Conti ­ nent. All except Emma. My guess is she was dragged there by the killer, who then sent her off along with Lady Hart.”

  “Sent off to whom?” Breanna asked. “Has t hat Rouge person my father dealt with resurfaced? Or is there someone else buying these women?”

  “I don't know. But since Emma and Lady Hart were kidnapped two days ago, the shipment that included them had to have left between then and now. We'd better act fast.” Royce was already in motion, crossing the threshold into the hallway. “Wells,” he called, summoning the butler. “Where's Damen?”

  “He's upstairs with Miss Stacie,” Wells reported. “I didn't alert them to the fact that Hibbe r t had r e­turned. It's after eleven o’clock and Miss Stacie is ex ­ hausted. I assumed we could disturb them if it became necessary.”

  “It just became necessary,” Royce informed him. “Get Damen. Tell him to come down here, and to bring every bit of information he accumulated on that M. Rouge who was buying Medford's cargo.”

  Wells blinked. “Js Rouge the killer?”

  “No. But he might know him.” Royce turned back to Hibbert. “One of us has to ride to London. I want to check the manifest of every ship that has sailed in the past few days. Perhaps something will strike us as suspicious. Or maybe someone at the docks will even remember Emma Martin or Lady Hart, if we desc r ibe them.”

  “Pardon me, Lord Royce, but I have a suggestion.”

  Wells had paused on his way to the stairs. “Neither you nor Hibbert has slept in days. What's more, the docks will be practically deserted until daybreak, with no one either knowledgeable enough or sober enough to talk to. My advice is to go to bed directly after your meeting with Lord Sheldrake. That applies to Hibbert, as well. I'll stand guard outside Lady Breanna's room tonight. After a decent night's rest, you can ride to London.”

  “Thank you, Wells, but I...” Royce broke off, real­izing how absurd it would sound for him to say he trusted no one other than himself when it came to Breanna's safety.

  A look of gentle understanding touched Wells's fea­tures. “I've protected her for twenty-one years, sir. I'm certain I can continue to do so—during those rare times when I'm needed.”

  “You'll always be needed, Wells,” Breanna said softly. She gazed reassuringly at Royce. “I'm in excel­lent hands. Do as Wells suggested and get some rest.”

  Royce nodded. “All right— after I've spoken with Damen.”

  “I’ll get him at once.” Wells hurried up the stairs.

  “Breanna,” Royce said, turning his attention back to her. “I know Bow Street questioned your father thor­oughly when they brought him in. Did he tell them anything specific about this French contact of his, this Rouge?”

  “No.” Breanna shook her head adamantly. “Just as Father never met the assassin, he never met Rouge. Their only contact was by post. Rouge was very care­ful to keep it that way. Evidently, he's the one who originally sought my father out, not the other way around. The way Father described it. Rouge sent him a letter, said he had a proposition he thought could benefit them both. He was aware of my father's finan­cial woes. He was also aware of the fact that my father would go to any lengths to resolve those woes. Father responded at once, and their alliance began”

  “You're sure your father was telling the truth, that he wasn't concealing anything?”

  Breanna sighed. “My father is a coward, Royce. If there were any chance of lessening his own punish­ment by blaming someone else, he would jump at the opportunity. So, yes, I'm sure he was telling the truth.”

  “Then there's no point in my wasting time at New­gate. As for Rouge's knowledge of your father's des­peration and lack of ethics, he could have picked that up anywhere—at a dub, a tavern, right here in En­gland, or in Paris from a chatty English visitor. There were certainly enough people who knew Medford's ways.” Royce pursed his lips, thinking. “Let me hear what Damen knows. Then, I'll get some of my less reputable contacts involved.”

  “Less reputable contacts—you mean, criminals?”

  Breanna sounded more intrigued than shocked, re-minding Royce yet again that she was far stronger than her delicacy suggested.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “Yes, but not hardened killers. Just seedy types who have more wits and brains than scruples. They get me information, I pay them well.”

  “Snitches, you mean”

  “Yes.”

  “That makes sense. After all, finding unscrupulous people is what you do.” “Indeed it is. And one thing I've learned is that there's no one better equipped at ferreting out a crimi­nal than another criminal.”

  “Which is certainly what we're dealing with here,” Breanna replied bitterly. “Whether it's Rouge or some­one else, we're dealing with an animal, someone who buys women.”

  At that moment, Damen strode down the stairs, his mouth drawn in a grim line. In his hand was a letter.

  “Wells stayed upstairs,” he announced. “I want him guarding our bedroom door. Normally, Stacie would have beaten me down the stairs to take part in this conversation. But she's asleep—the first real rest she's gotten in days. She never heard Wells knock, and she didn't budge when I left the room. I've never seen her sleep so deeply. Frankly, I'm worried sick about her.”

  “She's under a lot of strain, Damen,” Breanna said, trying to soothe him—and herself. “This pregnancy was difficult to begin with. And now, fearing for her babe, her strength is depleted. As soon as we stop this assass
in ... as soon as we...” Her voice quavered, and she broke off, averting her gaze.

  “Breanna, I'm sorry,” Damen responded at once. “This has been hell for you. I didn't mean to be insen­sitive.”

  “You weren't.” Swiftly, Breanna composed herself. “I'm as worried about Stacie as you are. But I truly be­lieve Royce will catch this monster.”

  “I intend to. Is that all the material you have on Rouge?” Royce interrupted, pointing to the letter Damen held.

  “Yes.” Damen handed the correspondence to Royce. “It's an explanation from Dornier, the manager of my Paris branch. As you know, Rouge and Medford used the House of Lockewood—both the London and Paris branches—as hubs through which to send messages. Cunnings was their intermediary. When I attempted to cheek out Rouge, I contacted Dormer for my initial answers. That's his reply you're holding. Go ahead and read it.”

  He waited while Royce complied.

  “According to Dornier, Rouge himself never made an appearance at the bank,” Royce muttered as he skimmed the letter. “Everything was forwarded to an address in Paris... 4 Rue La Fayette. Rouge was never seen by anyone—not even the messenger, who was instructed to slide the letters under the door and leave.”

  “Exactly. That's as far as my investigation got. I ad­vised Dornier to hire someone to follow the messen­ger the next time he arrived for Rouge's mail. But next time never occurred. Medford was caught, and Rouge simply dropped out of sight.”

  “Seemingly”

  Damen's brows drew together “Seemingly? Does that mean you suspect he's still involved in all this?”

  “Someone is.” Swiftly, Royce recounted his latest suspicions to Damen, explaining what he'd pieced to­gether about the assassin and his overseas dealings.

  “But we have no idea if the person receiving these women is Rouge,” Damen noted when he'd finished “Or even if he's receiving them in France.”

  “No, we don't.” Royce rubbed his chin thoughtfully, altering the subject slightly. “Let's talk about the night Cunnings was killed. Do you recall what Bow Street found on his desk when they discovered his body?”